Sadly, I have eaten probably a whole bag of papillotes in the past month
I open with a quotation from a Papillote (delightful Christmas chocolates that are wrapped in gold and wise words):
Le monde est un livre dont chaque pas nous ouvre une page
The world is a book in which each step opens a page.
--Alphonse de Lamartine (who, crazily enough, lived in Belley for a spell.)
This seems appropriate as some of us (just me) are starting a two week break in 40 minutes. So, this is merely a message to let you know what posts you have to look forward to after I return. In the new year. 2011. Time flies!
Snow comes to Belley!
So does my Mom! (And we go to Geneva, Montreux, and Lavey-les-Bains)
I validate my visa!
Fête des Lumières à Lyon!
Vacation: Barcelona, Strasbourg, Brussels, and Paris!
Intrigued? Grood. See you round, clowns.
Joyeuses fêtes!
Jess
P.S. Think of me as you are with your families this holiday season. I'll be sending bisous and dreams of sugar plums your way!
The week of Thanksgiving, life in France carried on as usual. So, I tried to ask my students, “Does anyone know what holiday is in the US this week?” Legitimately, no one knew. Well, that’s not true. On Wednesday, I had one student who nervously answered, “Thanksgiving.” New favorite? Probs. So after I would explain what the holiday was to everyone, dating back to 1621 and its history that went from loving the Native Americans to celebrating defeating the “heathen Natives,” I would ask if there was anything for which the students were grateful. Loud and clear, I got the message: No.
On Thursday, I had a lesson on identity with the Première Littéraire group. (Lycée/high school in France goes for three years. You start as Seconde, then to Première, then to Terminale.) Obviously, since we were talking about race and identity, I played this video for them.
After the class ended, one of the girls, Noämi came up to me to tell me she had been to Canada. “Where in?” Ontario. “For what?” I asked her. She said a response. “Sorry?” She repeated it. “Sorry?” and I leaned in. She repeated again. I just said I had never heard of it since I still couldn’t understand what she was saying. I’m fairly certain she just wanted to tell me she had been out of France before. Then she asked where I usually eat lunch. So I told her that I eat in the cantine, and she asked if I eat with students. That’s when I realized she wanted to eat lunch with me. So I had to let her down and tell her that I eat with the teachers. First time teaching this girl, and I’m already being asked out to lunch. Kind of strange as I can’t imagine ever asking one of my teachers to eat lunch with me. Especially not in a cafeteria.
I’ve actually just come from my second class with Noémi. As soon as I walked into the classroom, she came up to me to ask, “Where have you been these two weeks?” I’ll admit, I was shocked at the unexpectedness of the question. I told her I had been here. She said, “I’ve been looking for you, but I can’t find you anywhere.” So I told her I usually only come in just before a class and will hang around for a bit after, but otherwise, I go home. (Which is true.) So then she said she wanted to talk to me and that she’d do so after the lesson.
This lesson was about fashion and what it tells you about personality. Unfortunately, most of the students told me that they wear clothes so that people can’t tell what their personalities are, which kind of hindered the lesson. I ended up asking them what kind of stereotypes they have about different ways of dressing: jock, preppy, street, and gothic. Then I remembered that one of the profs had told me that French people often make fun of how British people dress. So I asked if it was true. The students resoundingly affirmed. I asked what they associate with British style. Their response? Boys in leggings. I actually have no idea what this means or where it comes from. Clémence told me that last week she saw a boy wearing yellow flowered leggings. I asked her where she saw this, and she said London. How is this possible? Anyway, later in the hour, I asked what they associate with French style. Fashionable and stunning. Obvio. Then I asked about American style. The first word on the list? Tacky.
After class, Noémi came up to me to ask what I do on the weekends and vacations. I told her I travel. Then she asked what I do at lunch and on Wednesday afternoons (since French schools have Wednesday afternoons libre/free). I told her on Wednesdays I don’t do anything in the afternoon. She asked about the cantine and if I could eat with her. I told her probably not, and she said, “What if I ask the headmistress?” Has any teacher ever been so sought after? I told her it’s not good to show favorites, so she dropped it. But then she was all, “Maybe we could do something on Wednesday afternoon?” So I thought maybe she wanted me to tutor her, but nope. She wants to go to a show or something. So I told her she could email me and she asked if I was on Facebook, and I said yes but that I don’t think I’m supposed to be friends with students on in. So, I gave her my email address. Then, I guess that wasn’t enough because she asked if I have free periods during the school day, which obviously I do. So I told her if she emailed me, I’d let her know. This is getting really strange really fast. I’m trying to figure out a way to be not rude about not hanging out with this 15/16 year old girl. I don’t need any fatal attractions.
Back to Thanksgiving week, though. So, Thursday after I got out of school, I got on the bus to Chambéry to catch a train to Lyon Part-Dieu where I would be getting a train to Paris to visit Maryse for the holiday. The train from Chambéry to Lyon was, I’d say, not heated. But definitely not as not heated as the Lyon train station where I had a 30-minute wait. It was so cold that I went into the Relay store and looked at some mugs for an absurdly long time just so that I’d be warm.
I got on the train and made it to Paris in about 2 hours, though in total my journey took 5 hours to complete. Maryse fetched me from the train station, and we went straight chez elle. She lives in a lovely apartment near the Bastille with a crazy American woman from Viriginia, Sarah, who’s there every few months (this being one of those times when she was around) and a girl from Strasbourg named Cécile. While Maryse was preparing our turkey and mashed potatoes (made from some of the biggest potatoes ever), Sarah was wandering around with her French copine/girlfriend and a Eiffel-tower glasses of red wine. I was on Skype with the ‘rents.
Maryse wand I enjoyed the luscious meal before having one gin and apple juice each and heading out to go dancing at one of Maryse’s treasures: BizzArt. BizzArt is a bar with a restaurant all the way around, so throughout the night, you could look up at the second floor to people who had stopped their dinner conversations to blame it on the boogie with the dancers and drinkers below. When we walked in, the cover band, who was really sensational, was covering Michael Jackson. This always means a good night will be had. They sang Jackson 5, Michael Jackson, the Jacksons, Luther Vandross (you read that right), and a slew of other artists. All were excéllent. At one point, the lead singer (so obviously mixed—especially with a name that was something like Najoua McNamara) pulled up a random woman to sing with the group. Later, there was a massive group in the center, just in front of the stage, all doing the same dance moves in time. It was like the most impromptu and uninspired flash mob ever. Then they switched to DJ-ed music, which was great, considering they played Whitney Houston. While they played this music, though, they had images projected onto the wall, which is great. You know, I’m as down for mixing the two genres as the next person. But the way they did it was really strange. For a while, they had just a repeated still frame from an episode of Soul Train on the walls. Then, later, they had music videos of African American artists, but not the ones who were singing. (Which was a real shame because they sang MJ’s “Do You Remember the Time” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” Great videos—anything with Magic Johnson or gender-bending is okay by me.)
When they played “It’s in His Kiss (The Shoop Shoop Song),” though, I was a little confused. So the next time they played an undanceable song, Maryse and I peaced out.
The next morning (which wasn’t the time when Sarah came into the room where I was sleeping to get something from her baby fridge way early in the morning), Maryse went to work while I continued to sleep. Around 10:30, after Sarah gave me directions, I set out. I walked through Place des Vosges:
and came upon the Bastille:
For the glory of the French citizens who armed themselves and combatted for the defense of public liberties on the memorable days 27, 28, 29 July 1830.
Then I realized that I didn’t actually know which direction to start walking. I knew I needed to be walking along the Seine, but funny thing about rivers is that they go two directions. So, I guessed that I was supposed to be going to the right and magically happened to guess correctly, but I didn’t find that out until about 20 minutes into my walk. That’s when I saw signs pointing towards Notre Dame and just about every monument you think of when you think of Paris. And so I continued on. I felt even more rewarded when I came upon this sight:
Backside of Notre Dame Cathedral. Back back back it up. YEAH!
Since I couldn’t really remember if I had been in Notre Dame (I remember standing outside for an inordinate amount of time two years ago and taking photos of it), I decided to do a quick walk through since there was no line. Which is quite remarkable for this cathedral. As soon as I got inside, I realized that I had been in before, but I kept on going just because. When I had the opportunity, I sat down for a few minutes since after leaving here, I intended to go to the Musée de l’Orangerie in the Jardin des Tuileries, which is just what I did.
Even though these photos make it look like the weather is just absolutely lovely, trust me when I tell you that it was bitterly cold. I was gloves in pockets all day with scarf doubled around my neck. I stopped to get a tarte au sucre from a Paul stand once I arrived in the Tuileries. It’s situated just across from this place:
Obligatory Paris picture.
Naturally, I had to take off my gloves while eating it. Instant regret.
I walked the whole of the Tuileries on my way to the Musée, and was so glad to finally get inside. Having never been to this museum before, I didn’t really know what to expect, but I was pleased with what I did find. They have two large oval rooms with gigantic Monet landscapes.
I would live here.
The space was chosen so that it would be like the viewer was actually surrounded by the images—as if they were real. Perhaps this photo is helpful to get an idea of the scale.
And the scale is SABADO GIGANTE!
It was quite peaceful in the rooms. Everyone just sat and looked at the paintings. (Except when security had to tell people “Pas de flash!”/No flash!)
Downstairs (aka underground!) the museum continues. I first went into the special photography exhibit that was displaying the work of German photographer, Heinrich Kühn. Not gonna lie, some of his photos were totally hipster. Loved it.
Then I went to the other side where they had Impressionist works. Naturally, I took a photo of this Renoir:
So, once upon a time, my mom went to France when I was a little girl (WITHOUT ME). When she came back, she gave Alex and me a Memory card game where you had to match the paintings of famous painters: Degas, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Renoir, and 3 others whose names I can’t recall right now. Maybe Modigliani is one? (This is fact. You can look in my CD holder at home. The deck of cards is still there.) Anyway, as I continue traveling, I get so excited when I see paintings from that deck of cards. So that’s one of them. End of meandering into my past.
I continued walking in the bitter cold trying to make my way over to the Musée Marmottan Monet. I crossed to the other side of the Seine (the side with the Eiffel Tower) before realizing that I was overeager (and just flat out wrong) and so I went back to the correct side. As soon as I got back on the right path, I stumbled upon this monument:
Flamme de la Liberté: Exact replica of the flame of the statue of Liberty offered by the French People through donations from the entire world as a symbol of the Franco-American friendship on the occasion of the centennial of the International Herald Tribune (Paris, 1887-1987)
I continued on my way and paused when I saw this building, which is absolutely designed to impress but utterly ravaged by graffiti:
You can't see it, but there's a skate ramp on the left. Also graffitied.
I’m not entirely sure what it is. I think it might be something to do with modern art, but I really couldn’t tell. It also seemed strangely vacant for a Parisian space.
At this point, I decided to stop for a hot chocolate instead of making time for lunch because I was behind schedule. So, I got a cup at a stand across the river from le Tour Eiffel and continued walking. I eventually got to the Musée Marmottan Monet, which was (you guessed it) a museum dedicated specifically to Monet. It housed other artists’ paintings of him, various drafts of his works, his early caricature drawings, and a whole bundle of other things. For the Monet completist in your life, this is the perfect museum. It is certainly more intimate than many other museums. For me, to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t my favorite. Although I did enjoy the southern couple standing at the poster of the Money family tree and trying to figure out what was going on. It was pretty straightforward, to tell you the truth. Basically, wha ha happened was, Monet had his wife Camille but she died after they had some babies. Then Monet’s family moved in with the Hoschedé family, who had a litter of their own. After Mrs. Hoschedé died, Mrs. Hoschedé and Monet got married. So, too, did Monet’s oldest son and one of the girls from the other family. It’s kind of Flowers in the Attic, but not really because they were like 30 when their folks got hitched (also because it didn’t take place in an attic). Anyway, this gal at the museum was insisting that her husband was misunderstanding even though he was pointing to the lines on the family tree. After about 5 minutes of listening to them argue in their drawls, she saw that he was correct. Then she said, “That’s kind of creepy.” Funny given the reputation of many Southern states in the US, n’est-ce pas? (Isn’t it?)
Other thing learned about Monet is that he had cataracts and that he started wearing colored glasses to correct the distortion of colors that resulted from his corrective surgery. Very interesting stuff. Unfortunately, I wasn’t crazy about his paintings from this period. In any event, I can cross yet another Paris museum off my list. Also, while I was inside, it started to snow! I kind of went bananas. But by the time I got back outside, it had melted. No complaints here.
Then I hot-footed it to the métro to meet up with Maryse at a night market in Montmartre to get some grub for dinner and to buy apples for the apple pie she intended to make for Sunday evening’s Thanksgiving dinner. Great news is that the 10 tickets I bought for the weekend in Paris to be used on public transportation stopped working at this point. So I kept trying to put my ticket it and it kept telling me it was invalid. Naturally, this all started to happen just as rush hour was starting. I stepped out of the way to let the first throng of people through. Then I gave it another go, because I’m nothing if not cheap (and I had already paid 12€ for the tickets!) and this time it worked.
I managed to get to Maryse only 30 minutes late. Luckily, I got to watch a French man put the fear of God into some older British tourists. (This isn’t lucky because I feel for my brethren. Oh yes. I went there.) We wandered around the market and stopped to get some apples from a delightful man who decided to ask me from out of nowhere if I was Brazilian. NO! Should I have lied to get a better deal on the apples? YES! Jokes. This is what we saw on our way back to the métro:
NBD or anything... Just the Sacré Coeur
We went back to Maryse’s to have some leftover cauliflower soup, bread, and cheese. Then we left to meet up with some of Maryse’s friends at the Champs-Elysées Christmas market. The people in attendance: Jesselyn (Maryse’s paramour), Tori (Jesselyn’s roommate), Roberto (Tori’s Italian petit ami/boyfriend), and Sam (assistant in Poitiers and apparently my blind date). We wandered up and down for a bit. It was as thought this was Maryse’s first Christmas market (and it may well have been) because she was pulled in by every singly stall, regardless of what they were selling. This is a Christmas market with a wide assortment of wares being peddled. Sausages, nougat, marshmallows, Russian stacking dolls, Russian stacking dolls of Michael Jackson, naughty Christmas costumes, you get the picture. After we finished with the market, of which I didn’t take many pictures because I had been there 2 years before—SORRY, FRIENDS—we made our way over to a bar for some of my country’s finest dish: fish and chips. (You can take the girl out of Britain…) Before I forget, here’s the one photo I did take of the market:
It was on the wall of an indoor skating rink even though it was totes cold enough for that mess to be dehors/outside.
After we had basically second dinner, we parted ways. By the way, for the entire rest of the weekend, Maryse smuggled me into the métro because I like to live dangerously and because I didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of arguing for new tickets. So Jesselyn, Maryse, and I went back to Maryse’s while everyone else did something else. I’d imagine, went home. The three of us sat in the salon for a bit with Cécile just chatting while waiting for Cécile’s friend, Mathieu to arrive. Then there was a black out. It was thrilling. But it was also cold outside. So Maryse stood at her balcony and took this photo for me:
You try taking a photo of a blackout and see how you do.
Maryse said it was a shame Sarah slept through the blackout and we tittered. Then to bed!
The next day, I got up to do some reading while waiting for Maryse to rise and shine. So I breakfasted with Cécile and Mathieu. Actually, what happened was that Cécile and Mathieu ate while I awkwardly sat and watched even though Cécile offered me croissants/baguettes and her mom’s homemade confiture des fraises/strawberry jam. As soon as they bounced, you can bet I devoured a healthy helping. Maryse and Jesselyn strolled in around noon. Jesselyn had to go to new job training, so Maryse and I puttered about for a bit before deciding to head to Ladurée, which is the place where they invented macarons and is also the shop that supplied them for Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette. Naturally, it was a place I absolutely had to see! So I snuck on the bus after Maryse and we took a ride to the premier arrondissement and went to the shop. It’s absolutely delightful inside and it’s quite easy to see how Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette was influenced by it. The menu has a history of the confection, and I was surprised to read that the macaron was not even invented until the 1800s, therefore making its presence in the film anachronistic. But, then again, so were the powder blue Converses in this magical song scene:
Sorry for this tacky photo, but I wanted to get as much of the ambiance in as possible.
So, Maryse and I shared a pot of Marie Antoinette tea while she enjoyed a délicieuse violet and I sampled four macarons. I had Madagascar chocolate, blackcurrant violet (representing for the UK), salted caramel, and rose ginger (by far the winner). Afterwards, we took a short walk to look in the department store windows where all of the Christmas displays are up. There seems to be a theme with teddy bears and/or the circus during this holiday season in France, and, quite frankly, it’s a bit strange. There was one store that had windows with musicals’ songs playing—sometimes the songs were translated, which was kind of funny to hear, especially with Mamma Mia. But they also had Mary Poppins and Hairspray among others. I particularly enjoyed the one with the umbrellas and teddy bears with the score fromLes Parapluies de Cherbourgplaying. Luckily, I was there to explain the cultural reference to Maryse. Because I’m nothing if not a know-it-all. There was such a massive crowd to see some of the animatronic window displays that I distracted myself with the ceiling, which was certainly nothing to dismiss.
Then we went back to Maryse’s for dinner and watching some British Indian sketch comedy from Cécile’s DVD collection. Maryse and I also peeled apples for her first pie, which she baked a bit later in the evening (with me doing all of the conversions from imperial to metric). We had plans to go out but as we’re getting old in our old age, we bailed. Instead, Michael Martinez (who also went to Wash U and who is also working as an assistant in Paris) came over until about 3am and we had a luscious time. Cécile joined in the action as well once she was home from her babysitting jobs.
The next day, I woke up just as Maryse’s friend, Hallie, was arriving with the real turkey to be cooked for the dinner. Jesselyn arrived shortly after with the necessary ingredients to make stuffing from scratch. Michael came later with ingredients to make his candied yams. Generally, a good time was had by all as we grooved to Christmas music or oldies and I watched people cook because I had nothing to contribute. Though I did hold the turkey legs together while Hallie tied them and I did relattice Maryse’s pie so it was picture perfect. Don't worry, though. I enjoyed some genuine Kwanzaa entertainment courtesy of Maryse's childhood. You can enjoy it too!
Around 2, though, I had to say my farewells because I had a train to catch! So, Maryse walked me across the street to the bus stop and I got on illegally and got on my train about 10 minutes before it pulled out of the station. Sensational.
When I got to Lyon, I had made plans to meet Marc at one of the métro stops in the burbs (near his parents’ home), so I set to it straight away. (This was not originally the plan. On Thursday, before I left Belley, I texted Marc to see if he could pick me up from Virieu. He said no but that he could get me from Lyon if that’s where I would be. Thankfully, yes it was!) Good thing I did because it ended up taking about an hour to get there, but it was fiiine with me because the métro stops are warmer than waiting in the train station!
Came back to the good ol’ internat, which wasn’t heated, obvio. I set up the chauffage éléctrique/electric heater next to me in the kitchen while I cooked myself some dinner and chatted with the ‘rents. Afterwards, I went to my room and plugged in the heater for a bit before deciding it was still a bit cold and making a move to plug in the heated blanket my momz had sent me. Oops. That blew a fuse and then none of the sockets in my room were working anymore. So, I put all of my blankets on the bed, pulled the covers over my head, and went to sleep.
Somewhat toastily,
Jus
P.S. Did I mention that all the walking I did on Friday (from Maryse’s to the Musée Marmottan) was hugely disagreeable to my right foot? Just today I was able to manage without an aspirin. Think I’m being a baby? Here’s the GoogleMap of my trek:
What we’re gonna do right here is go back. Way back. Back into time.* Since I’m super behind on blogging, I’m going to try to retrace significant moments. So, the weekend after Amsterdam, I had planned on visiting Livia who’s teaching at a lycée in Bellegarde, which is only about 4 stops away on the train. Well, Wednesday morning, I woke up to see that my phone had decided to fall to the floor and crack its screen while I was sleeping and dreaming about creamed onions and stuffing. (It was nearly Thanksgiving!)
So, I made my way down to the Carrefour and Telecom to see if they could fix it. As expected, guy behind counter said, “No. It’s broken. We can send it away for you. It usually costs about 100€.” So I called Mama and Papa Lifesavers and they said they’d take care of it! Calloo callay. Because my phone is generally how I time presentations in my classes, how I check my email, how I maintain connections to home and keep my life organized. (Since having it restored to me, I have realized that I also use it to keep time since the computers in the teachers lounge are 8 minutes slow, and my watch is 5-ish minutes fast.)
After going to the phone shop, I went across the roundabout/carrefour, so I could get to the Macdo and download the program recommended to me to get around the new proxy that prevents Facebook and Gmail usage, purchasing tickets on SNCF or EasyJet, and basically anything else that grants me non-Belley life access. (It originally also prohibited YouTube. Those were dark times.) Anyway, while doing an internet blitzkrieg, which I do every time I’m at Macdo, I saw an email from Livia telling me that she wasn’t feeling well and that I could still come to Bellegarde, but the weather forecast/météo was for rain and that she wouldn’t be able to show me around.
As enticing an offer as that was, I was thrilled when immediately after that, Flo skyped me and asked what my weekend plans were. She offered to come get me on Saturday and to take me to Annecy for the day before going chez elle for the evening, and then I’d take the train back to Belley on Sunday. So serendipitous! It sounded like a brilliant plan to me. (I’d also be able to get to a FedEx to mail my phone home since Geneva’s a bit bigger than Belley. Understatement of the blog? Maybs. Too soon to tell.) The only problem was that I’d have to sort myself out for Friday night.
While the idea of spending another solo evening at Bar des Aigles was, I decided to just let it all hang out and wrote Marc a note in French asking if he could please pity me for long enough to invite me along to whatever his Friday evening plans were. He responded via text to say he was going to Bordeaux for the weekend but that we must plan a dinner soon. Back to square one I was.
So I went out to pick up some things for the evening I had ahead of me. I had a moment of inspiration just before stepping out, though, and so I looked up FedEx locations in Belley. Imagine my surprise when I saw that there were several. Looking at their addresses, though, I became undeniably wary since the website said that the FedExes were on completely residential streets. Still, I wrote them down, circling their approximate locations on my Belley map, which covers the entire side of an 8.5x11 sheet of paper, thankyouverymuch.
I went up the first street and came up empty-handed. Then I started walking straight to the Tourist Office because it was nearing the time when FedEx would be closed anyway so I didn’t want to waste time by tramping around Belley looking for stores that didn’t exist. I stopped by one more possible address, though, even though I thought it was the street that only housed the Exotic Shop (meaning African goods). I was right. So I went into the Tourist Office and asked if there was a FedEx in Belley. “What’s FedEx?” the man behind the counter asked me. Generally, not a good sign. So I explained it and he asked his colleague. And she said no. Surprise surprise.
Whatevs. So I went and got some wine from the Petit Casino and a “Japonais” from one of the patisseries.
Inside it was chocolate cream. Noms. Also, obese, though.
I ate dinner while videochatting with Tiffany Wang who’s doing a language program in Taiwan. I enjoyed my wine and Japonais, which means “Japanese” before heading out into the night.
This time, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the bar was filled with many people under 55. But, naturally, those were not the people who spoke to me at first. Jacob (the bartender) asked me how my life is, so I told him. He asked me for American money. I promised him I’d bring some next time I go in.
There was suddenly some commotion concerning a large, old man who had been sitting next to me. He was pushed inside by his friends and was repeatedly told to “Ferme la bouche.” (Shut your mouth.) After the whatever that was died down, the guy started talking to me. I have a knack, apparently, for making older drunk French men feel it’s safe to start a conversation with me. So he starts slurring his French to me, and I have to tell him that I don’t understand. But he tells me I have a nice smile. (Actually, he says “your smile” and sighs and opens his arms like to the heavens. That seems about accurate, right?)
Anyway, he peaces out and Jacob starts chatting with me, and I ask what this green drink is that I’ve seen lots of people around Belley drinking. He tells me it’s called “Get Vingt Sept” (that sounds kind of like “Jet van-set”) and pours me a shot for frizzle. I take it slowly. It tastes like mouthwash that you’re supposed to drink.
Eventually, I go home.
Saturday, I laze around because it’s grey outside. Around 2, Flo came to fetch me. It was nice to be in a car going somewhere and not on a bus/train. So we chatted about au pairing and things that I don’t know about until we arrived at Annecy, a town about which people can’t stop raving.
Annecy a.k.a. "Little Venice"
Arches all over the place. Tiny shops. Colorful buildings. What more could you want?
How are these fleurs still alive!?
We wandered around Annecy Le Vieux (Annecy the Old) for a while before stopping for a chocolat chaud (hot chocolate) and some sandwiches. Afterwards, we hopped back in the car to get back to Flo’s for dinner as it was Antoine’s (her younger son) birthday. We got back and had homemade crêpes for dinner and dessert. We had planned on watching a breakdancing show on television (Antoine takes breakdancing classes), but we couldn’t find it. So, we ended up watching Le Pékin Express and drank tea instead. Still enjoyable.
The next morning, Flo took me to the train station with enough time to get a train ticket. She also showed me how to not get ripped off next time I have to buy a ticket from Geneva center to Geneva airport. Future mission to be accomplished.
After I got back from Geneva, I waited at the train station for two hours to get the bus back to Belley.
So once upon a time Jennifer Richard (from high school who’s teaching in Strasbourg through the same program) asked me what I was doing for the upcoming holiday and I told her I didn’t believe that there was a holiday and that I thought she was lying to me so that I’d miss school and have to make up the hours so that it wouldn’t be reflected in my paycheck. Then I went to Lyon to visit Katelin and found out that it was the truth. So, that Sunday night, I booked my EasyJet flights to and from Amsterdam. Since it’s easiest to go from Geneva, I made arrangements to go from that airport (crossing my fingers that the grève, which I believe is still ongoing, wouldn’t interrupt anything aka the train schedule). My flight would leave at about 6:30 in the morning on Thursday, which would be impossible to access were I to sleep in Belley Wednesday. (We’re not in London anymore where transport at any time of day/night is plus ou moins a dream.)
So, I emailed Flo to ask if I could lay my head down on Wednesday night and then on Saturday night (since my flight would get back at 8pm). I didn’t hear back until Tuesday afternoon just after I had started looking up hostels to crash at for the night before. Luckily, Flo called just after I had started looking at the first one and told me that she had been diving in Egypt and had just arrived back home, but would be delighted to have me stay for those days. Sweet, sweet success.
And so I found a train to get me to Geneva around 7pm on Thursday night. I took the bus to the train station and was surprised to find the station closed at 4pm on a Wednesday. I shouldn’t have been, though. I looked at the opening hours for the gare and found that it’s closed far more often than it is open. I actually doubt that I’ll see it open again before the close of this year. So, I had to wait outside from 4:20 until 5:56 until my train arrived. Naturally, as always happens when I am waiting at Virieu le Grand, a small troupe of philandering teenage boys showed up to do whatever it is that they do for a while. What it is they do is smoke and, this time (because I was in for a holiday treat) was pee on the platform. I guess it was alright since it had been raining so you couldn’t tell what liquid was what. But I’ll know forevermore.
5:56 rolled around and no train. Tick tock tick tock until 6:56 when the train decides to show up. But since it’s so late at this point, I don’t know if it’s the train I want to Genève or the train that everyone else on the platform wants to Chambéry. I frantically asked someone coming off and he told me it was Geneva. Hopped on and let the show begin. I looked at the display once on the train and saw that it said that the train was en route to Annemasse. Hmmm. Not right. So I asked what about Geneva and some lady was like, way way way at the front of the train. So I walked to the very front of the car and it still said Annemasse. I stopped some people sitting on the train to ask what the dealio was and they said it was the first car of the train. Naturally, I was antsy because, who knew where the trains would diverge? So at the next stop (Culoz), I hot-footed it to the next car up in the train, where one of the controlleurs was looking at me like I was a hot mess, which I was. He asked where I was going and I told him and he said I could make the real switcheroo at Bellegarde. Which was good since I had gotten on one of the middle cars, which was going to Évian. And so I waited 2 more stops and switched at Bellegarde. Foolishly, I switched to the car with the rowdy French teenagers including the boy who answered every phone call with, “Oui, chèrie?” At one point, he was outraged that the girl on the other end of the call said she had found one of his mates more attractive. Or attractive in general. Of course I wasn’t eavesdropping, though, so I didn’t get the full histoire (story).
Did I mention that I had wanted to buy a ticket at Virieu before getting on the train? Well, since the station wasn’t open, obvio I was foiled. So I was riding to Geneva in fear of being found out. I got off no problem at the downtown Geneva stop, following a group of Model UN Americans where one girl was bragging about having been “here” before. I don’t usually brag about having been at train stations before, but that’s just me. So I bought a ticket to the airport in Geneva (because it’s closer to Flo’s) and thought the price of 10CHF was a little steep, but since Livia had been telling me how expensive everything in Switzerland is, I took it in stride.
It wasn’t until I got off the train and into Flo’s car that I found out that there is actually a 3CHF ticket that would have taken me betwixt the two stops. Lesson learned. Flo asked which flight I was taking back to Geneva from Amsterdam because she thought that her sisters (Véro and Marionne) would be on the same flight. We would be. We got back to her place and had a lovely meal with Gregoire, Antoine, and Marionne (who stays with Flo on Wednesdays). Marionne informed me that she and Véro had been planning on going into Amsterdam for three months now. Because they are half Dutch (mixed!), they miss some of the foods and so occasionally go shopping in Amsterdam. They’d be on the first flight to Amsterdam and the last flight back. Can you imagine? Gotta love Europe.
The next morning, Olivier drove me to the airport bright and early before he was off to go swimming. I got in and on the plane without issue (except when security took my lotion because it was 200mL, even though I’ve been traveling with that bottle for about 2 years now. So sad I nearly cried. You think I’m joking, but I’m not.). I took the first available seat I saw, which is the real trick with Southwest-style boarding. I don’t know why people always want to sit in the back. It means being on the plane longer. This fellow asked to sit next to me IN FRENCH. I denied him. Jokes. Do people do that? Deny someone the seat next to them because of looks? Something to ponder. Anyway, on EasyJet, they say everything in 2-3 languages. When I laughed at the joke made in English, dude totally double-took me (double-taked me?) because he thought I was French. Ooooh yeah.
Anyway, I closed my eyes and when I opened them, we were about to land. After years of flying back and forth between St. Louis, it is such a treat to constantly have 1-1.5 hour flights here. I got off the plane to see this:
Too soon.
I then took the train to the main station in Amsterdam where dear Jen met me. We walked around on the way to the hostel to get some grub. She got a chocolate muffin while I got some apple thing. I got apple because I know that apples are big in German dishes so I decided to make a huge generalization and guess that they were important to Dutch dessert culture (because dessert culture is the only kind that matters to me.) Then we went back to the hostel so I could drop off my junk and so that we could pick up Jen’s friend, Sarah, with whom she had come to Amsterdam.
We set off nearly immediately to Anne Frank’s House. Or, as its called in Dutch, “Anne Frank Huis.” On the way over, Jen and I recounted the story of Anne Frank to Sarah, who didn’t recall it. It was a really lovely museum, set up in the actual house where she and her family lived for nearly 2 years. Sadly, photos aren’t allowed, so you’ll have to find time to get there on your own. In one room, though, they have a model of the secret annex and its layout. It looks quite large and you kind of think, “Yeah, two years is long and all, but it doesn’t look too turrible.” Then you get into the actual rooms and realize, “Holy moly. This is tiny.” It was quite unbelievable how small everything was and how many people lived there for so long without anyone knowing it. The museum also has pages from her journals and letters from her father while he was searching for signs of his family after being released from the concentration camp. It’s really heartbreaking, but it’s so wonderful that Otto Frank was able to do something so beautiful with the remains of those two years. There was a video of him, taken 50 years ago where he’s talking about how he felt after he received her saved diary from Miep Gies. In it, he talks about how surprised he was to see her self-doubt; the clip ends with him saying, “You never really know your children.”
After going through the house and the front business rooms, you see pieces from the history of the Huis. Bill Gates wrote a letter that made him sound quite pompous—shock? He basically said how he recently visited with a sculptor friend and was moved. Then his last line was something like, “You might be interested to know that my this friend’s aunt did the English translation of the Diary of Anne Frank.” Way to make this all about you, Bill. I was touched to see that Otto Frank replied to every piece of mail sent to the museum.
After Anne Frank’s, we went down the road to a pancake place that calls itself the most famous pancake place in Amsterdam. Jen and Sarah split a caprese pancake complete with mozzarella, mushrooms, tomato, and basil. Forget that. I got the Autumn Special with poached pears, chocolate, whipped cream, sliced almonds, and (most importantly) cinnamon ice cream.
They helped me finish it.
When we went outside, it was naturally raining super hard and the wind was blowing like it was going out of style. Jennifer broke an umbrella. I honestly wish I had taken a picture of her hunched underneath her umbrella that still only worked on one half. The other flap, she was using to try to shield her face. I swear that I tried to take a picture, but I was laughing too hard.
Afterwards we stopped into a coffeeshop to satiate certain people’s habits. Because some people go to Amsterdam for the culture and some go for the lifestyle. ‘Nuff said.
We hustled to the Van Gogh museum, which Flo had recommended to me. Even though we’d only have about 1.5 hours at it, we made our way over. It really is a lovely museum, full of paintings by Van Gogh as well as those who inspired him. I didn’t take any pictures because I wasn’t really sure if I was allowed to or not. As the museum closed, we bounced and went to the market to get dinner: bread and cheese. I got Oude while Jen and Sarah stuck with camembert and brie. (French amateurs.) This is where this traveler fails: we went upstairs to have a bit of a lie in (before going out) around 8:30. Then we fell asleep and didn’t wake up until 11 the next morning.
For breakfast, we had more bread and cheese. We set off to walk around because, shock, the weather was actually nice. So we went to the national monument in Dam Square, which was just a short walk from our hostel:
The national monument was erected in 1956 in memory of the World War II veterans. As we stood in its shadow, I looked up, and I swear to Bob it looked like it was going to fall over and crush us! It was kind of trippy. I’m guessing it’s because of the particular angle at which I looked at it and because of the clouds moving behind it? I’m not a scientist, just a girl with a dream.
We stopped to take pictures in a shoe:
A shoe too big for even my pa!
On our way to take a canal cruise, I insisted that we stop at Oude Kerk, which is Amsterdam’s oldest parish church. Erected in 1306, and now it’s the church of the red-light district. We paid the 3€ to get in (quite a bargain in Amsterdam!) and were surprised to see that it wasn’t an ordinary church inside.
Massive organ? I took a picture of a woman wearing a fur coat under it.
Pretty inside with wooden roof.
We happened to catch it on the day people were setting up for a modern art show that would be taking place on Saturday evening.
Art from junk mail. One man's trash.... Same man's treasure!
Still, it’s quite a lovely church.
After we left, we stopped for a drink (I got Strongbow—Chav 4 Lyfe!) before going to the canal cruise. Sadly, the boat was nearly full by the time we arrived and so we were facing the wrong way, which was a bit of a bust. But, really, my main problem with the cruise was that the commentary was in 3 languages: Dutch, German, and English. This isn’t really a problem except for it’s quite tiring when you’re listening to the two languages you don’t understand. It essentially made everyone on the boat quite tired. Anyway, we went past the bike hotel that houses 50,000 bikes, because didn’t you know that there are over 400,000 cyclists in Amsterdam?
The cruise also showed us the “unique” view of the 7 canals in Amsterdam. I’m not sure what that means, but the boat paused, so I took a photo:
We left and went to dinner (bread and cheese. Haven’t you seen noticed the pattern? Actually, I also bought some yogurt.). Then Jen and I went out while Sarah went to bed with a migraine. I asked Jen to take me through the Red Light District since we had seen it in the daylight and there wasn’t much going on. At night, different story. Each girl has her own door, with lights around it. What’s remarkable are the varying interest levels of the girls. Some are totes trying to make some action (or please the tourists?) whereas others are sitting on their phones. This is my pathetic photo:
Roxanne, put on the reeeed light!
After wandering about for a hit, Jen and I managed to find Escape, the club we were looking for. (It seemed like everyone/all tourists were going there as we heard several people mention it at the hostel.) We were walking towards the line when someone came out the back door, so I said we should just go on inside through that door. I’m such a rebel. But it didn’t matter since you paid once you were inside the building to get into the “club” part. Bummerde. Blah blah blah danced for a bit and went home.
The next day, we schlepped our bags downstairs to pick up after we walked about for a bit. We went across the street to get waffles and smoothies for breakfast. I got mine with dulce de leche. Jen got powdered sugar. Sarah got plain. Quite good. We walked basically wherever the street signs with arrows pointed us, so we passed the stock market, saw some open air markets (one with a guy that was an orange juice making MACHINE), some graffiti, and eventually arrived at Waterlooplein, which is Amsterdam’s oldest market with over 300 stands.
After perusing for a bit, I made my way across town to Begijnhof. (Please note that I have no idea how to say 98% of the names of any places in Amsterdam.) But not without stopping to take some photos:
Falling houses!
Perfect for seeing all modes of transport in Amsterdam! (I'm clever.)
Begijnhof is this square that’s essentially untouched from olden days. Beguines were pious Catholic single women who performed good works but did not want to live in a convent and so did not take vows, and so this courtyard is surrounded by homes for these women. Great fires destroyed the original houses in 1421 and 1452, so the remaining courtyard dates from the 1600s and 1700s. There’s one house still standing (“Houten Huys”/Wooden House) that was built in the second half of the 15th century.
Even though Roman Catholics weren’t allowed to practice openly for just over 200 years in Amsterdam, the Beguines were left in peace. The last Beguine passed away in 1971, but all of the courtyard’s residents are still women. It was very peaceful and totally quiet.
Until outside there was this crazy intermittent drumming and whistling. I thought it was a parade except that it never really went away. So I went outside to investigate and take video:
Then I walked back (basically) to where I had just been by Waterlooplein to go to Rembrandt’s house since I didn’t think I had enough time before having to get to the airport for my flight to go to the Rembrandt Museum. It was an alright museum, but I wouldn’t have felt bad for missing it. I should have known since the audio tour told me first thing, “You are in a special place.” Anyway, here’s Rembrandt’s collection of stuff that he’d use for inspiration and whatnot:
Also, here is Rembrandt’s bed:
People in those times slept in box beds sitting up because they thought blood would rush to your head and you’d DIE if you slept lying down. Makes sense, right?
I missed a demonstration of how Rembrandt made prints. But I didn't miss the prints hanging to dry:
I watched a man make paint:
Then I hot-footed it to the hostel to get my bag and leave. But certainly not before stopping to take photos of the man making massive bubbles outside of the museum:
I made it onto the train no problem. Except that I stuck my arm out trying to open the doors for these two other guys and, newsflash, the doors on the Amsterdam trains are not motion sensitive. So when I stuck my arm out, the doors kept closing. They closed with my hand still waving outside. I managed to squeeze my hand back through, but the metal part of the bracelet my mom had brought me back from Aruba was caught in between the rubber door jam. So I rode along with my arm attached to the doors hoping that the next stop would have that side’s doors opening again. But alas! (And alack.) They didn’t. So when we got to my stop, I had to maneuver the bracelet out. Good thing it’s made out of elastic. So now it’s a bit stretched out. But it’s still in France with me!
When I got to the airport, I went to the supermarket that’s inside, which is totally crazy crazy. I mean, it sells a ton of stuff like Pop Tarts, cake mix(!!), and many other treasures. I got a banana and chocolate covered ginger. Then I realized I had accidentally gotten to the airport about 40 minutes too early for my flight. So I went through to wait, but only after being patted down in a manner that I can really only describe as "intimately."
I was reading my book when Véro and Marion showed up. We got on the flight all together and went back to Flo’s to unload all of their Dutch goodies and enjoy some cheese and bread. The next morning, Olivier took me to the train station, but since I was running a tad bit late and so didn’t have time to get a ticket before getting on the train. Since I was only taking it one stop before changing in Geneva downtown, I figured I’d be able to get by no problem. Mistake! I got on and went upstairs and sat down. Immediately after, the train woman came up to ask me for my ticket. I told her I didn’t have enough time to get one and she was all, “Do you realize you’re in first class?” Naturally, I didn’t. She asked if I was going just to Geneva. I said no since I was going to Virieu. Then she asked for my destination. It didn’t come up on her machine since it’s in France. Then she asked again, “Just to Geneva?” and I still was saying no no no. Then she clarified that I was just on that specific train until Geneva. Then she charged me 15CHF for the ticket, which she said wasn’t a first class price since she’d let me slide, but I need to open my big fat eyes when I’m walking around. Not exactly what she said, but maybe similar.
Then I got off in Geneva and went to buy a ticket. I waited patiently in line only to find out that I was at the help desk and not in the ticket line. When I went to the ticket line, I had about 4 minutes left until my train was leaving. So I didn’t get in it and figured I’d wing it again. (Some people never learn.) I was super nerveuse as I went through the “To France” entrance to get to my voie/platform because it says to have your ticket ready as you go through customs. I just smiled and sailed through without anyone stopping me. I tensely sat on the train the whole way to my stop. SNCF (the train company) men walked up and down the train, but didn’t stop to see my ticket at all. As they announced Culoz (the stop before mine), the controlleur entered my car. I freaked out until we pulled into Virieu, when the controlleur was literally 3 people away from asking for my ticket. Got off and waited 2 hours for my bus to come for me. Then flounced back to my dorm where the heat had been turned off.
It sometimes seems as though I do an insufferable amount of complaining on this blawg. So, I’ll just give a little list (I've got a little list<-that's for my pa) of things around here that have made me smile of have a chuckle.
1.The CarrefourDangereux sign that I pass when I’m on my way to the Carrefour market. Each time I go by I think it’s funny and wonder if my Carrefour is perhaps the one in the bad part of town. Like at Wash U if you bought booze with a fake ID, people would say that they got it at the “ghetto Schnucks.” Also, since it's in front of this abandoned building, it kind of would make sense for my mistaken interpretation to be the correct one.
2.The baby sized toilet in the Macdo. What’s really funny about this is that it’s in the same stall as the normal sized toilet in the handicap stall. So tiny. But so mighty.
3.Fall. This arrangement of autumn leaves was on the side of one of the buildings on my walk to and from the center of town.
4.The thin-lipped woman who’s always in the teacher’s lounge when I go in there and, inevitably, will stop talking and stare at me while I walk around the room. Not actually. This makes me paranoid. Just testing you.
5.Seeing “Bébé à bord” stickers in people’s car windows. Anyone who has ever driven in a car with me knows how dearly I love these stickers in English. Knowing they’re in France too is really just a treat.
6.This creepy collection of stuffed animals in the backseat of this car that is nearly always parked in front of the post office. In the same parking spot. Sometimes I think someone lives in the car. But I've never seen anyone get in or out of it. The mysteries of Belley are many.
The rest of this list is without pictures because it would be odd to take them.
1.French people wearing crocs. I don’t understand them as a shoe, in general. Funnily, at the Amsterdam airport, which has a baby shopping mall inside, they have a genuine Crocs store. I didn’t realize that was something you’d have a true need for in Amsterdam. I stand corrected?
2.French people in these weird jean-like Aladdin pants. I saw them on a few different girls in the same week. Generally only Aladdin, Jasmine, the Sultan, and MC Hammer can rock that look. But A+ for effort.
3.The woman at work who wears this pair of flooding pleather (though maybe they’re real leather?) pants nearly every day. I only say “nearly” because I don’t go in on Fridays, so it’s possible that she mixes it up before the weekend.
4.Walking around the school (or Belley, really, since I stick out like a sore thumb) and having students say “Hello” to me. They say it with this grin like they’re pulling a fast one on me or something. Honestly, they’re just so proud of “hello” that it warms my heart. This is in direct contrast to Katelin’s (in Lyon) experience whenever she’s walking down the street speaking English to someone. She says whenever a French person hears it, they manage to say “Fuck you” to her. I got a chance to know the magic as we walked towards the tram stop and someone said, “Hello. My name is Fuck you.” She actually stopped and asked him why he said it and told him it’s not a nice thing to say. Set ‘em straight.
And now to summarize last last week… Not much to report back. Notably, this is what the view from my window looked like nearly every morning. Imagine my surprise!
On Monday, one of Marc’s students asked me again how old I was. I said 22. And she said, “Wow. That’s really young.” I could just repeat it back to her, agreeing that it is really young. I generally have no idea what I’m doing. And I’m so lucky that the students blindly do what I tell them because I probs couldn’t control a rowdy bunch.
Later in the same class, we were talking about McDonalds (for a lesson on globalization) and I asked what kind of changes the company would make. Tituon said they don’t have Dr. Pepper in France. This got everyone a bit riled because apparently you have to drive to Paris (or maybe Geneva too?) to fill that prescription. (Get that joke? Stretch.) So I asked what they do drink. Lisa said they have Coke and Sprite. Tituon said, “Shit.”
In the afternoon, after we finished talking about some cartoons, I decided to mix it up and play a song for the class and to have them fill in the blanks. After consulting Maryse, I decided to play “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. We were sure I’d end up with a class full of hipsters. Dominate. Welp, too bad the song seemed to be massively too fast and we made it through about 75% of it. I also don’t think they appreciated the song as much as I had anticipated.
The next day, I went to Sandra’s class. They were giving presentations of “adverts” (because they learn UK English) they had made, slogans included. Here are some stand-out lines:
For an anti-cigarette campaign: “Do you want an early death?”
“Smoking is a pact with the devil.”
For a Blackberry ad: “Choose a blackberry than a boyfriend.”
For screws: “Don’t get screwed up. Buy our screws.
--Reasoning for buying these screws: Can be put in soup so you get enough iron. Can also be used as earrings.
At the end she had me introduce myself. When I said I was from Los Angeles, it got the same response of shock but I was surprised to see that even the student whom I thought was an exchange student was impressed. I really need to do more research on this kid. He dresses French, though, so I don’t know. Oddly intrigued by his mastery of English combined with French fashion sensibilities. Anyway, she asked the students to give me suggestions as to what to do in Belley.
They came up with 3 suggestions:
1)Drink wine
2)Go hunting and fishing
3)Garden
If I take their advice, I’ll definitely be the next Calamity Jane. (That was an excuse to put in more Doris Day. You can never have enough.)
Then I spent an hour subbing for Nicole as she was at CERN en Suisse (in Switzerland) because her class is reading Angels and Demons. So I stepped in and they’re doing a unit on what appears to be the American black experience as she had them looking at Ray; listening to blues, jazz, gospel, and soul (she wanted them to do without actual samples. I wouldn’t stand for it so I brought in some Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Duke Ellington, and Bessie Smith); slavery; Toni Morrison; and some other stuff. I guess you can encapsulate the struggle with all that? But it’s totally out of order. Like, we started with Ray, then discussed the music types, then slavery, then they’re doing Morrison. Mess. Oh well.
For Sandra’s next class, I had to prepare a lesson on the dangers of the Internet. So, naturally, I played Gym Class Heroes’s “New Friend Request.”Then we talked about it, had them come up with some lists, and we reviewed some vocab with Hangman. At the end, the only student I knew already, Jonathan (pronounced Jaw-nah-tah. Those 2 as are like the a in “tan.”) came up to me and said, “You’re a really good teacher.”
Only fail of the week: Sandra asked me if I wanted to eat with her at lunch. OBVIO. But I had left my meal card in my room. So I went back to get it. Then I waited in line. When I got to the front of the line, I realized I had brought my library card with me. So I went back to get the real card. Then I had to wait in line again. So I didn’t get to the cantine until about an hour into lunch. Don’t worry, though, as I walked in with my tray, I saw Sandra and Marc walking out. So I ate solo. Ain’t no thang but a chicken wang. I took the apple yogurt home with me, so I feel good about that.
